


Winning the Battle, Losing the War

by InTheShadows



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everyone Needs A Hug, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Reunion, Sherlock Needs A Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-11
Updated: 2013-11-11
Packaged: 2017-12-31 19:29:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1035511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InTheShadows/pseuds/InTheShadows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The choice seems so simple: either jump or they die. No way out, or clever solution. But nothing is ever that simple. The Fall doesn't equal death. Nor does coming back equal a warm welcome. Emotions aren't logical. Winning the battle does not equal winning the war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Winning the Battle, Losing the War

**Author's Note:**

> pardon any ooc or obvious Americanisms

“When I despair, I remember that all through history the way of truth and love have always won. There have been tyrants and murderers, and for a time, they can seem invincible, but in the end, they always fall. Think of it--always.”  
― Mahatma Gandhi 

“The fight isn't over until you win.”  
― Robin Hobb, _Royal Assassin_

 

Sherlock stares at the door from across the street. Finally.

Finally, after three years of chasing criminals, thugs and assassins, he's done. Moriarty's web has been dismantled and he can come home. He never knew the true meaning of the word until he was forced from it. Before, he didn't care. Now he has grown a new appreciation towards sentiment. 

It hasn't changed much. More weathered than before, but still the same. It is still the entrance to the most comforting things he knows- experiments and crappy telly and jumpers and 'not your housekeeper' and Chinese takeaway and John. Always John.

He fidgets where he stands. It's ridiculous that now that he can return, he's delaying it. It's not like he doesn't know what to expect. Or rather, what most likely to expect. He has thought of everything from “Oh God, you daft git” and crushing hugs to “How the hell could you do that to me?!” and a punch to the face. 

It will be terrible and glorious and so _fucking worth it._ Because he will finally be home. Further proof that he has emotions, as if he doesn't have three years worth of proof already.

He crosses the street quickly and opens the door. Even after all this time, he still has his key. Nothing has changed as he goes up the stairs and into the flat. The flat is different though. Cleaner, with no case information on the wall or experiments on the table.

There is a gasp and then John is standing in front of him.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock nods and waits.

Slowly John reaches out and touches his coat, pushes it away and feels his heartbeat through his shirt. John's face is blank for a long moment before anger takes over. “You- you bloody bastard! You selfish, narcissistic, egoistical, miserable git! What the hell were you thinking?! How could you-” He punches him in the face.

Sherlock winces, but makes no protest. It hurts, but he deserves it. Even he is able to figure out that what he did is not easily forgiven. Not even by John.

“John... I...” And how does one even start to apologize for something like this? “I'm sorry.”

“ _Sorry._ You're _sorry._ As if that will make this better?”

Sherlock frowns. “No, but it is where people usually start, is it not?”

“People? You mean us ordinary dull idiots?”

Sherlock's frown deepens at John's sharp sarcastic tone. “You know I do not put you in the category of everyone else.”

“Oh and is that suppose to make me feel special?”

“It is merely a fact.”

“I feel privileged.” 

Sherlock fights not to flinch. Just because he knows he has to tolerate this- John's words, his tone, his mockery- doesn't mean it doesn't hurt. He knows he is the cause for John's anger, but there wasn't any other way. 

“I realize that this is a bit not good-”

“Really? They don't call you a genius for nothing.”

“-and you have every right to be angry-”

“Why thank you for your permission, Your Highness.”

“-but know that I wouldn't have done this if there wasn't any other way.” 

“Oh really? Well isn't that convenient. You can run around wherever the hell you've been and when you get bored, you come back.” John sneers.

This time Sherlock does flinch, almost takes a step back. He just wants this to stop.

Apparently seeing it gets through to John because anger seems to drain from him. He runs a hand through his hair. “Christ,” he sighs “sorry, it's just... well you know. Tea?”

Sherlock nods cautiously and follows John in the kitchen. It's soothing, seeing this familiar routine again after so long. It's only after they both have their tea and are sitting in their familiar seats again that either of them speak. 

“Ok,” John nods “I can listen now.”

“Moriarty had his end game planned well. I was given a choice: either I walk away or I jump. But if I walked away, you, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade would have been killed.”

“Bastard” John growls “bloody, bloody, fucking-” He lets out a harsh breath. “And you were chasing who this whole time? We found Moriarty dead on the roof.”

“His web.”

John swore. “If he wasn't already dead, I'd burn _him._ ” He's silent for a moment, then sighs. “I'm going to be insufferable for at least a month,” he warns.

“Are you going to put eyeballs in the microwave or torture the violin at three in the morning?” Sherlock asks with a small smirk.

John snorts. “No. Not yet anyway.”

They look at each other before dissolving into helpless laughter. 

“Christ” John says, wiping his eyes “I missed you, you daft git.” He walks over to the couch and pulls Sherlock into a tight hug. 

“I as well John. I as well.”

They stay like that for a long time. They don't talk. The silence isn't as easy as it use to be, but it will be. Eventually everything will go back to normal- or normal for them, anyway. 

But Sherlock knows it's going to be hell to get there.

_____________________________________________

 

The next day John goes to work. Sherlock can see how reluctant he is. He promises to be here when he gets back or leave a note if something unexpected comes up. John gives a curt nod and leaves.

It's about an hour later that he makes his way downstairs and knocks on Mrs Hudson's door.

“John dear? Aren't you suppose to be at-” She opens the door and freezes. 

Sherlock nods. “Mrs Hudson.” He waits for her to react. 

“Sherlock?” she asks.

“Yes.”

She slaps him.

He grimaces, but doesn't protest. Unfortunately it appears that a pattern is forming in the way people are greeting him. How unpleasant. 

“You bastard!” she scowls at him “What do you think you are doing showing up here after three years? Have you no sense of decency? Do you have any idea what you put us- put _John_ \- through? The poor man, I was afraid he was going to follow you for awhile.”

Sherlock wants to snap back at her 'I know!'. Wants to say 'I had no choice', 'I did it to keep you safe', 'I regret it more than you will ever know'. Wants to yell 'What did I do to you that made you believe I truly am heartless?', 'When did you stop believing I cared?' Wants to cry 'I thought I could count on you, why are you abandoning me, I died for you can't you see that?!'

Instead he nods.

She nods stiffly. “See that you treat the good doctor right from now on. I won't see my boy hurt again.”

Sherlock nods again before going back up to the flat and shutting the door. He throws himself down on the sofa and breathes. Just breathes.

He had been planning on going to Lestrade today as well, but he feels drained. Emotions are exhausting. They had always been, for him. It was one of the many reasons he blocked them out. Now they seem to be lodged firmly in his Mind Palace, refusing to be pushed back into their previous closest. 

Sighing he gets up and searches for his violin. He finds it in his bedroom, scribbles a quick note and goes up to the roof. From there, he takes another breath, puts bow to strings and plays. Plays his frustration and sadness and anger. The music flows out of him naturally, ringing out as a lament for the past three years.

He doesn't realize how long he stays up there until someone clears his throat behind him. John.

“That was beautiful.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock still feels like he is on unsteady ground. 

John nods. “Thanks for the note. Would have never guesses you were up here.” 

Sherlock doesn't let himself frown even though he wants to. Of course John would have found him. He could probably hear him playing when he came home. Sentiment then?

The tension in the air is almost a physical thing.

“I ordered Chinese. Come eat with me?”

Sherlock lets a small smile form. “Any fortune cookies? I bet I can tell you what they say.”

John snorts. “Yeah, like you did so well the first time?”

“Naturally.”

That night it was almost like everything was back to normal. They sat in front of the telly and mock the different programs. Eventually John settles on Dr Who and Sherlock doesn't blurt out the plot even though he figured it out in the first five minutes and John already knows the ending.

Something in his mind says safe, normal, home. The thoughts stay with him through the night.

_______________________________________________

 

Sherlock knocks on the door firmly. None of his nerves are showing on his face. He is fairly sure what to expect.

When Lestrade opens the door, he doesn't disappoint. He punches Sherlock without a word.

“Bloody hell, Sherlock,” he says after, “you couldn't have thought of a better way to tell me other than showing up on my doorstep.”

“A call seemed insufficient, there was no way to gauge if you would believe an email and a text seemed too impersonal. Also there was no guarantee you would believe the latter two options.”

Lestrade lets out a sigh. “I don't know why I'm surprised. This is the kind of thing would would pull.”

“Surviving the fall?”

“No, disappearing for years when you were still alive.”

Sherlock ignores the flash of hurt. Shut up, it's a useless emotion. He has a right to be angry. 

“Christ.” Lestrade sighs again.

“Do you have any cold cases?” Sherlock asks because he needs something else to focus on. Something useful, otherwise these emotions are going to consume his brain.

“No.”

“No?”

“No. None that we can't handle.”

“Has the IQ in your department gone up then?”

“Leave my team alone! We did just fine without you and we will continue to do so now.”

“But-”

“No buts Sherlock. I about lost my bloody job because of you! I'm not letting you back in. We need a reliable source, not someone who fucks off for three years without a word that they're alive. Not someone who abandons his- well I can't really say friends now can I, so colleagues, because he felt like it. Christ, did you even think about what it would do to the rest of us? To John? It practically destroyed him! He's suppose to be your best mate! So no, I don't have any cases for you. Find your own and stay out of mine!” He slams the door.

Sherlock nods even though no one sees it.

It's good to know he can still deduce some things.

_________________________________________________

 

The next week is unbearable.

Mrs Hudson has been actively ignoring him whenever she comes up. She would always bring tea and biscuits for John, but never said a word to Sherlock. Lestrade has been good on his word and has not contacted him once, even though there was an interesting case he knows he can solve. No one contacts him on his website with _anything_ \- interesting or otherwise. And John-

John had been the one highlight of the week, despite his mood.

One moment he would be fine, happy to talk to Sherlock and grinning. Then Sherlock would say or do the wrong thing and John would scowl and yell at him. Sherlock felt like he was getting wipe lash from it.

But despite this, at least he is kind to him. He would apologize and make him tea and try to distract him from his boredom. It's a relief that at least he only hates Sherlock sometimes and not all the time.

Still, by the end of the week, Sherlock feels like screaming. He is bored and restless and _so damn tired of emotions._ He almost cried the other day after Mrs Hudson left and John yelled at him.

It's ridiculous. 

Logically he knows they have a right for to be angry with him. What he did was more than a Bit Not Good. They have a right to their feelings and if it is anger, than so be it. Never mind that only John let him explain. Never mind that even John's best efforts are not enough to be nice all of the time. Never mind all that.

All he wants is for someone to hug him and tell him that they still care for him.

It's ridiculous, but there it is.

So when Mrs Hudson comes up when John is at work and Sherlock says the wrong thing and gets yelled at _again,_ he's had enough.

He sends a text to a number he hasn't texted in years.

I'm alive. Do you hate me as well? SH

It takes five minutes for a reply to arrive.

No

Can I visit? SH

You're actually asking?! Get your arse over here now. Plan to stay!

On my way. SH

Ten minutes later he steps out of the flat with a bag and a leather jacket he hasn't worn for a long time. He takes a cab to a posh house, enters the garage, puts his helmet on and speeds out onto the street.

Half an hour later Sherlock parks in front of a small bookstore. Someone is already waiting for him. “Sherlock!” Victor grins. “Bloody hell, you look terrible.”

Sherlock returns the smile. “Good to see you too.”

“Come here you bastard.” Victor commands affectionately as he pulls Sherlock into a tight hug.

Sherlock returns it just as tightly. Resting his head on his shorter friend, he breathes in his comforting scent. Victor always did smell good, something Sherlock noticed even before they started dating.

Victor notices and chuckles. “Still?”

“Mmmhmm.”

“Come on, lets get you settled before we talk. Store is closed today so we have plenty of time.”

Sherlock follows, not mentioning that he knows Victor closed the store just for him.

They walk past the shelves and up to the first floor where Victor lives. A bull dog greets them. Sherlock can't help the smirk that forms and bends down to greet him. “This one appears to like me much better.”

Victor laughs. “Dickens liked you quite well- _after_ he nearly broke your ankle.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Devil dog,” he mutters. “And this one's name? Austen?” He teases his literature loving friend.

“Ha ha, funny. No smart arse, it's Gladstone.”

Sherlock looks up, remembering a long ago conversation from uni. He smiles.

Victor makes two cups of tea and guides him to the sofa. He puts an arm around him and encourages him to lean in. Gladstone lays across both their laps. “So, talk.”

Sherlock does. He talks of Lestrade and Mrs Hudson and Moriarty and the Fall and the past three years and John. He talks about John a lot.

Through it all Victor listens, running a hand down his arm and occasionally through his hair, without a word.

Sherlock feels both gratitude and regret. Gratitude that Victor still knows him, knows what he needs and how to give it. Regret that they didn't work out, even if they parted amiably enough to still friends.

Victor growls when he finishes. “Bastards,” he declares.

“They have a right. What I did-”

“Was necessary. I'm not saying it was right, but you did what you could. It's a bad situation all around. If anyone is the blames, it's Moriarty.”

“I-”

“Don't deserve they way they have been treating you. You shouldn't have to put up with their verbal abuse for protecting them.” Victor covers his mouth. “No,” he repeats firmly, “especially not if they make you cry.” He swipes away a tear.

Sherlock hadn't even been aware he was crying. But now... “I'm sorry,” he says before the walls finally fully break. He sobs on Victor's shoulder.

“Shh, darling, shh, let it out, I'm here, I'm not leaving, shh darling.”

Sherlock finally stops, feeling thoroughly embarrassed.

“Not a word. Come on.” Victor pulls him up and leads him to his bedroom. He gets under the duvet and holds it up. “In,” he orders. Sherlock obeys. 

That night he finally sleeps peacefully in Victor's arms.

When Sherlock wakes, he's alone. He hears Victor in the kitchen making breakfast. He pulls out clean clothes and goes to the loo to freshen up. 

He comes out and takes a seat at the table, noting his mobile is sitting on it. He checks his texts to see if John contacted him and finds an entire conversation between him and Victor.

Sherlock JW

Are you there? JW

Are you ok? JW

Sherlock?! JW

Sherlock answer me! JW

Piss off

Who are you? JW

The person he's staying with

Helpful JW

Not meant to be

Fine. He is there? JW

Yes

And he's fine? JW

No help from you

What that's suppose to mean?! JW

Means I'm the better friend right now. Much better

How dare you?! JW

Because it's true

I'm his best friend JW

Doing a piss poor job of it then

Am not JW

Who's place is he at?

It's just been tough lately JW

And you don't think I freaked the fuck out when he died and then texted me?  
But I know what he needs and that's a shoulder to lean on  
I managed put his comfort over my anger  
So cry me a river that he came to me when he couldn't get that from you

Is he ok? JW

He will be

Can I talk to him? JW

He's sleeping  
Give him a couple of days  
You're not the only one who took this badly

Take care of him JW

I intend to

Thank you JW

There is a peculiar feeling in Sherlock's gut as he reads this. It's odd indeed to have your old best friend/boyfriend defending you from your present one- best friend that is. John would never consent to be romantically involved with him. He always was vehemently against before. He doubts these last years would help endear the idea to him.

Victor sets a plate of eggs and toast in front of him. “Morning Sleeping Beauty. Feeling better?”

“Much.” And it's true. He no longer feels like he's being consumed by emotions. There are still there, but he can tolerate them. In fact, they are in the much the same state they were when he was with Victor years ago. He tended to bring them out, but not in an unmanageable way. Strange how he never minded if it was Victor that caused it. But he was also different then too.

Victor nods. “Good.” He makes no mention of the conversation with John even though he saw Sherlock reading it. “What do you want to do today?”

“You have to open the store today.”

“No I don't.”

Sherlock gives him a look.

“Truly. I haven't heard from you in years, I want to be with you. Two days aren't going to make or break me. Now come on, plans?”

“You pick.”

“Well, I think there's a concert going on this afternoon. I assume you still like music? And I know there's a couple of plays going on at the local theaters. Or we could always go through my books if you want to stay in. Find the most interesting ones.”

Sherlock smirks. “Why not all of them? It seems someone has cleared my schedule for the next few days.”

“Good of that person, don't you think?”

“Indeed.”

Their plans end up taking up three days. During this time Sherlock feels the tension slowly drain from him. He had forgotten how relaxing it was to be around Victor. 

On the fourth day Victor opens his store again. Sherlock deduces everyone who walks in, much to Victor's amusement. A couple of times Sherlock hands a person the book they want before they even ask. Victor about collapses in a fit of laughter the first time he does it, while Sherlock rolls his eyes in exasperated amusement.

And then John walks into the store.

Sherlock spots him first and freezes. Which is absurd since it's _John._ Sherlock may have needed to get away, but it wasn't so much from him, but everyone else.

“And then-” Victor stops mid sentence to see what he was staring that. “John Watson I presume.” He says when John stands at the counter.

“Yes. I don't believe I have the pleasure of knowing you.”

“Funny, I know all about you.”

They stare each other down.

Sherlock sighs. “If you are going to have an alpha male showdown, kindly refrain from doing so in front of me. It is so tedious.”

Victor laughs. “What, you don't want two strong men fighting over your honor?”

Sherlock snorts. “I _know_ I can kick your arse Victor. And I can out fence, possible fight, John. I am in no need of assistance in this area.” Victor looks sheepish while John just looks intrigued, probably by the fact that Sherlock fences more than anything else. “Now, since apparently I have to be the one with the manners here-” John chocks on a laugh “-John, this is Victor Trevor, a friend from uni. Victor this is John Watson, _my blogger._ ”

Victor looks even more sheepish when Sherlock stresses that last. He knows exactly what Sherlock is not saying- which is 'fuck off, he's mine so to be nice to him or else'.

John, also sufficient in Sherlockian, offers a small smile in return.

“Well then, you two go upstairs to talk.”

The two go upstairs in silence. John fidgets while Sherlock makes tea. 

“So you met in uni?”

“Yes, when Victor's dog attacked me. I was laid up for a couple of weeks and he stopped by from a guilty conscience. We discovered that we had some things in common- mainly literature. He read things that were actually _interesting._ ”

John laughs. “Only you.”

“Of course, why would I want to meet someone boring?”

John continues to laugh, almost helplessly. “Christ, Sherlock.” He takes a breath. “I am sorry. I don't mean to be so angry all the time, it's just...”

“It's fine John.”

“No! No, it's not. You did this for the three of us and none of us were the least bit grateful. If not for you, we would be dead.”

“If you didn't know me, you wouldn't have been put in the position to begin with.”

“You're right.”

Sherlock gives a small flinch.

“Because I would be dead already.”

He looks up sharply.

“Don't act so surprised. I'm sure you figured out I was suicidal the day I moved in. Another week of sitting in the damn room I had before and I would have bitten the bullet for sure. So thank you for saving my life.”

“Even if I did ruin it?”

“Even if.” John walks over to Sherlock and pulls him into a tight hug. He returns it just as tightly and almost purrs with pleasure. Resting his head on John's, he lets the marathon of safehomeJohnsafeJohnhomeJohnJohn run through his thoughts. 

John runs a hand through his hair and he does purr then. John huffs a laugh. “Christ, you're like an overgrown cat. You know that right?”

“So I've been told,” he agrees.

“Victor?” John guesses.

“Mmmhmm.”

“Is he your boyfriend?”

“Was. It didn't last after the death of his father, but the parting was amiable, so we kept in touch.”

“Oh.”

Sherlock's brow furrows, dissecting the tone of voice John said it in. Odd, almost... “Jealous?” he asks, “There's no need. Neither of us have a desire to reestablish that form of relationship.”

John just nods.

“But why are you jealous? Is it because I turned to my ex for comfort? You did the same with Sarah frequently before.”

“There's a difference.”

“How?”

“Because there is!” John pulls away. “Just... leave it.”

Sherlock stares at him, noting his slightly rapid breath and flush. Oh. “Oh!”

“I said-”

Sherlock kisses him.

As first kisses go, it won't make any records as the best or most romantic, but it is still nice. It is nice because it is with John. John, who tastes of tea and strawberry jam and something else indescribable, but so essential when describing Captain John H Watson, M.D. 

They pull apart and John blinks at him for a moment. Then- “You taste like biscuits. Have you eaten anything else while you were here? Because as your doctor I feel obliged to tell you that is a terrible diet, even if it is better than not eating at all.”

Sherlock grins. The whole thing is so John. “Don't be absurd John. Victor is a wonderful cook. He makes sure I eat at least once a day.”

“So that's how you didn't starve when you were younger.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“And it was quite a task, let me tell you.” Victor comments mildly from his spot leaning in the doorway. 

“I didn't hear you complaining.”

“Must have deleted it then because I certainly did.” 

“Drama queen.”

“You know it darling.” He winks. “I assume you are staying for supper?” His face is the picture of politeness.

“I don't want to be a bother.”

“Oh no, I insist.” Victor's grin turns sharp and not unlike a cat going in for a kill.

“Alpha males.” Sherlock mutters in disgust and walks into the living room.

Supper is not that bad. In fact it's rather enjoyable once John and Victor warm up to each other. It makes Sherlock's chest feel warm that these two important people are getting along so well. That is, until they start exchanging stories about him. And he most certainly does _not_ pout.

After, they watch telly, with Victor at one end of the couch and John at the other. Sherlock is stretched between them, his head on John's lap and feet on Victor's, making small contented noises as both pet him.

“This is nothing.” Victor tells John. “Sherlock is the most tactile person I've ever met, once he lets you in.”

“I noticed.”

“Bit possessive too, demanding, obsessive to the point where you want to hit him sometimes, very intense,” Victor chuckles, “has the weirdest sense of romance you've ever seen, is a nightmare getting to compromise with, hogs the entire bed whether he's actually sleeping or not. But you know,” he turns to look at John, “it's so fucking worth it. Every damn second of it.”

“Of course, it's Sherlock.”

Victor smiles.

___________________________________________

 

All three of them are sitting at the kitchen table eating, or Sherlock's case stealing bites off of both John's and Victor's plates, when the question is finally asked.

“So what are your plans for today?” Victor asks. “Because I don't mind you staying here, but you,” he motions to John, “don't seem to be prepared to stay.”

John blushes. “I was in a hurry to get here,” he admits.

Victor nods. “I had noticed, yes. If you're not in a rush to leave, you should have Sherlock take you for a ride.”

“Ride?”

“That's his motorcycle in front.”

“What?! Since when did you own a _Bonneville_? No, first of all, since when did you own a motorcycle? Where did you store it?”

Sherlock chuckles. “Jealous?”

“Insanely. She's a beauty.”

“I got my first one when I was nineteen and I've owned one ever since. It drove Mycroft mad, which was, and still is, a source of amusement. Especially since I store it in his garage.”

John snickers. “I can only imagine.”

“Still a massive git then?” Victor smirks.

“He kidnapped me the day after I met Sherlock and tried to bribe me to spy for him in an empty car park.”

“I see he's gotten more dramatic than. He just threatened to make me disappear off the face of the planet if I hurt him.”

Sherlock sniffs superiority. “How dreadfully unoriginal of him.”

“True, but it was still rather effective.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Nosy git.” 

Breakfast continues in the same easy fashion and Sherlock finds himself relaxing in a way he hasn't in years. There is something satisfying about having the two most important people together, getting along well and looking out for him.

He knows that it wouldn't always be like this. That John is still liable to get mad at him, for eventually he's going to say or do something a bit not good. Nor is Victor a saint by any means. But he believes the worse is mostly behind him, in this regard.

In others...

Logically he knows Mrs Hudson and Lestrade have a right to be angry with him. He understands that he hurt both of them. But, as he has discovered, emotions are not logical. And he can't help feeling betrayed that they wouldn't even listen to him before passing judgment. That they should have more faith in him like that.

He sighs. “Winning the battle, losing the war,” he says under his breath.

“What was that?” John asks.

“This situation, I won the battle, but not the war. No matter how I acted, Moriarty won. There is no good way to go about this. No ingenious plot to fix everything, no brilliant solution to figure out. No, this is sentiment and emotions and illogical and Moriarty was so much more clever than me because he _knew_ this, knew I could never win, knew whatever I did I would be rejected, knew no one would want me afterward, knew-” He is cut off by a pair of hands on his mouth.

“Hey, hey Sherlock, Christ slow down will you,” John says. 

Sherlock nods warily. John removes his hands.

“Ok, first of all, you're wrong you stupid git. No-” he says as Sherlock opens his mouth, “let me finish. You're wrong because you still have me. I know I was horrible to you and I'm sorry, so sorry, but I'm here now and I have no plans of ever leaving again. You have Victor. I may not know the details of your history, but I do know loyalty when I see it. That's two people. Mrs Hudson and Lestrade will come around eventually. Yes, they are upset now, but time heals all wounds. Maybe not as well as we would like at times, but it occurs. I'm not saying that justifies their actions, but it is the reason. And Mycroft... no I still want to punch that bastard in the face.”

Both Victor and Sherlock smirk at this.

“The point is, yes, this whole situation sucks bollocks, but it is by no means the end. Moriarty only wins when we let him.” 

“Thank you,” Sherlock mummers softly.

John kisses him in reply.

“Awwwww, you two are just too cute together,” Victor tells them.

Sherlock flips him off and continues the kiss.

Victor's laughter rings through the flat. 

_______________________________________________________

 

“Come on John!”

“Oi, slow down. Not all of us have mile long legs you know.”

“That's hardly even close to accuracy, John really.”

“Bastard.”

The look Sherlock gives in reply clearly says 'I will not resort to such childish nonsense as name calling because I am above it'.

“Right.” John's tone conveys his disbelief and rightly so because more than one of their rows have been reduced to hurling creative insults at each other. Not to mention Sherlock's habit of turning 'idiot' into an affectionate term- with John anyways. 

The last year has been good for both of them. Sherlock had taken John's words of 'time heals all things' to heart. After much discussion, they decided to rent a flat near Victor's instead of returning to Baker Street- at least for the time being. It was for the best for everyone. The intervening time is spent allowing all parties to mend and bonds to reform again. 

Now, just a week over a year that everything changed, Sherlock has his first case with Lestrade again. John is grateful because Victor's part of town was being _boring_ and John was ready to tie Sherlock up to keep him from shooting/breaking/destroying anything _again._

“Sherlock.” Lestrade calls them over. “Body is upstairs.”

They head up. Sherlock takes five minutes to look around before declaring everyone hopeless idiots and spouting off his deductions in his usual manner.

Lestrade grins when he's done. “Glad to have you back mate.”

“Sentiment,” Sherlock announces dismissively before leaving. He pauses just as he exits the room. “Returned,” he nods and disappears, John trailing behind.

“Home?” John asks as he gets behind Sherlock and puts his helmet on.

“Home.” Sherlock confirms and pulls out onto the road towards Baker Street.

Victory. 

 


End file.
